


Burn

by SparklingDragonTears



Series: What makes an Argent [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 150 prompts, Alan Deaton Makes Them Do It, Chris is not a good man, Gen, Hurt Chris, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapped Chris, Lots of implication, Magical Stiles Stilinski, vague details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 12:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18094463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparklingDragonTears/pseuds/SparklingDragonTears
Summary: Prompt 66: "Get out of my head."Scott sinks into Chris' memories against his will and discovers Argent was not a good man.





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.  
> Number 66: "Get out of my head."
> 
> This is intentionally vague about Chris' past, as this will be a series with flashbacks.
> 
> Magical Stiles. Pretty much BAMF Stiles implied.  
> Not nice Deaton. Deaton causing trouble for unknown reasons. Presumably for some sort of revenge for Talia.  
> Chris has a dark and terrible history in my head. He's done many terrible things to please the hunters. 
> 
> Enjoy.

He came into consciousness abruptly. There was a sudden awareness of self, of feelings and memory, everything just out of reach, yet mostly tangible. He would have been sure it were a dream, if not for the searing pain emanating from just behind his vision, threatening to blind him if he let it. He recognized the situation immediately, theory all but confirmed when long-suppressed memories pressed to the forefront of his sight against his will.

He focused hard on the memory of his face in the mirror, every rugged line and scar as real as he could make it. He focused with every bit of energy he could. He pictured his mouth moving, felt his throat scratch with his voice.

“Get out of my head.” He demanded, putting as much growl as he could into it. The response was a silent flood of Alpha Red, glowing bright and steady. “Leave!” He demanded, trying to drown out the voices from his past which echoed in a terrifying chorus.

_“You will never be good enough.”_

_“I hate you!”_

_“You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”_

_“Please don’t shoot!”_

Chris let out an anguished cry, throwing his everything into blocking the mental assault, pushing away the Red, trying to shut out the screams.

He felt the rage of another shake his core, trance broken and grim details washing over him. Everything he once was, flooding out after all this time. Blood and bones, breaking skin, gunpowder and blades. Faces looking at him, light fading from tiny eyes. Flames and laughter, pain and tears. Red burst through him and he was suddenly doused in a bitter cold, left alone with only afterimages in the dark of his mind.

He didn’t open his eyes, assessing the situation quickly. Ropes digging into his wrists, check. Seated in a solid chair, check. Both an easy escape. Cold, echoing room, smelled strongly of sanitation. Likely a hospital, or private medical room somewhere, perhaps the vet office where the McCall boy worked. As he thought through all the medical places in town, he honed in on heavy breathing close behind him, almost a snarl. Chris was man enough to admit he was afraid of whichever Alpha stand behind him. He could hear at least two other bodies in the close space. He didn’t yet know who had gotten into his mind, but mentally ticked off the possibilities, each worse than the last.

The seconds stretched on in painful silence, until he slowly slid his eyes open, bracing for an inevitable fight.

He wasn’t expecting one disturbingly neutral face to greet him. In fact, he was so shocked, he lost his defenses for a moment, forgetting to take in his surroundings.

Alan Deaton met his eyes without expression. There was something callous in the passive response to his awakening. Chris had to suppress a shiver.

“What the hell did you see?” Demanded the Stilinski kid from the side of the room. Argent immediately turned to take in the others. He was certain the worst possible scenario lay behind him and and tensed in preparation of pain.

“You didn’t…” Chris growled, staring down the druid, who made no move to affirm or deny.

“How the _fuck,_ ” Chris blinked hard in effort not to flinch at the slam behind his head as McCall raged behind him. “Did she come from someone like _you?!_ ” The teen behind him yelled. Another slam, metal skidding across tile. The Stilinski boy’s eyes were wide and he jumped out of the way of flying veterinary instruments. 

“Scott!” Stiles yelped, desperation in his voice. He opened his mouth to presumably try to talk Scott down, but was cut off with a roar.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” He demanded, timbre in his voice making Chris’ hair stand on end. “You didn’t deserve her!”

Chris tried to move as slowly and subtly as possible to wriggle free from the ropes around his wrists, taking advantage of the blind fury behind him. He glared at the man standing stoically beside the door.

“You son of a bitch!” Chris snarled, before a deafening blow hit the side of his head, rocking his vision and thundering his ear.

“Don’t you fucking talk to him,” Scott demanded. He felt claw tips resting against his throat, wrapped around the back of his neck. His heart hammered, pulse pounding through his skull. 

Stiles looked afraid, a look Chris thought he’d long outgrown. He saw the shadow of McCall shifting on the floor around his feet as the wolf moved his arms and legs, unsure whether to fight or run. Chris ignored the command and directed his hatred to the man before them.

“What happened to keeping peace?!” He demanded. Deaton’s eyes narrowed in challenge. “Why would you use Scott? You _knew!_ He’s a god damned kid, for fuck’s sake!” He yanked at his bonds, both in anger and trying to weaken the slits he’d worked into them with his wedding ring edge.

“I swore nothing to you,” Deaton answered, in his usual casual tone. Chris yanked again with his wrists, glaring holes into the other man. Using any Were was low, but expected from the morally ambiguous druid, regardless of the reason. Using Scott for something like this, forcing him to witness the agony of a young hunter was downright abysmal.

Stiles made the connection quick as the fox he was and pushed away from the wall, hands balling into fists. Eyebrows drawn close, he glanced between the three of them and bared his teeth like the wolves.

“Is that was this is?!” His voice was deeper than Chris remembered, completely absent of the child they once knew. “Scott, get the hell away from him.” He pointed firmly to the far edge of the room, fingertips glowing with a deep power.

There was silence for a moment, only broken by ragged breaths and soft growls. He noticed Deaton stepping closer to the door.

“If you think this is honoring Talia, you’re delusional.” Chris barked out, teenagers temporarily forgotten. The other man faltered slightly, before offering a small smirk.

“Do wise to remember the role of the Emissary, Argent.” He made to leave, but Chris wasn’t having it.

“The next time I see you, I will not hesitate to kill you.” It was a promise.

Scott’s claws pricked into his neck, breaking the skin at his words, but Stilinski seemed to have tamed him for the moment. Deaton gave him a long look, one that spoke of promise and threat. He glanced between the boys, before leaving and closing the mountain ash door behind him.

Chris brought his focus back to the situation at hand, almost cut through the rope. The boys were having a silent conversation between them, Stiles glaring and shaking his head in tiny movements.

“Let go of him, he’s about to break free.” Stiles finally said, relaxing and folding his arms over his chest. Argent was surprised at the astute observation, but Stiles only looked around the room purposelessly to give Scott a moment to relax.

Chris felt the twitch in Scott’s hand as he clearly debated whether to let go or crush his windpipe. In the end, Scott’s nature forced him to step back, letting go as if he were being burned.

A quick twist and the rope fell to the floor with a dull thud. Argent flexed his fingers, quickly reaching forward to untie his ankles. He jumped up and put his back toward a wall, finally seeing the teen behind him.

McCall was nothing the lovestruck puppy he’d first met. The young man before him shivered with contained power, all ink stretched over hard muscle. His fangs were dropped low, shining in the dim light. Deep wrinkles distorted the once baby face. Bright Red glared at him like spotlights in the night. He looked every inch of monster Argent had once believed.

Chris scowled, hands reaching for his belt holsters and finding them empty. He shot a look around the room, locating them on a far table, Stiles standing between him and them. Even his ankle knife had been swiped from his boot. 

He glared between the two who were once good friends to his daughter, even allies to himself. Scott was radiating judgement, clearly ready to declare a sentence befitting his crimes. He ground his teeth together, he didn’t owe them a damn thing.

“I never claimed to be a good man.” He finally gave, bitterness hard on his tongue. 

Scott looked disgusted, but Stiles remain neutral. The Stilinski boy appraised him sharply a moment, eyes flicking over his face and body without judgement, before stepping aside, giving a wide berth between Argent and his weapons. 

Chris was no fool, he took the opportunity at once, rushing to rearm himself, never letting his back to them. He felt the cold air stinging at the open wounds in his neck, skin prickling when the back of his shirt pulled with tacky blood.

Stiles nodded once and Chris left without another look back to McCall. He let the heavy door fall closed behind him, listening for the wolf to change his mind. Those memories may have scarred and damaged the boy, but he didn’t have to relive them over and over again, feeling the real scars on his skin to match the mental wounds. 

Chris waited until his SUV was far from the clinic, farther than the wolf could run. He waited until he was outside of town, running away again, memories gouging deep and pulling out fresh pain as if they were only days old. He waited until the sun began to rise over the horizon of a new small town to let the burning tears finally fall hot, unleashed after years in the hellish prison of his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always <3
> 
> Till next time,  
> -J X


End file.
